Bubble Gum
by S.Zix
Summary: Forty three days after Cloud Strife's dad Tbones Tifa Lockhart's mom's car, summer vacation ends. Tifa won't grieve on their time, and Cloud is the only person who isn't apologizing. But that's life, and High School is sticky.
1. Chapter 1: Broccoli Casserole

**Bubblegum**

**Chapter 1: Broccoli Casserole**

Tifa knew she shouldn't comb her hair, check her phone, and take a sip from her cinnamon spice latte while she navigated the school parking lot, especially not after her mother died that summer in a car accident, but it wasn't her mother's fault the other driver was drunk. That's the way life is. You might as well just let it happen to you.

The Jeep tires bounced against the parking brick. Tifa jabbed at the seat belt release six times with one hand while she wrapped a fistful of hair in elastic with the other. It wouldn't give.

"Damnit," she snapped, bumping her latte with her hand as she wrenched it around to grab the seat belt. The latte almost dumped over before she intercepted it with her knee. The coffee burned through the cup, but at least it wasn't seeping through her socks.

After setting the cup right, she took a deep breath to collect herself. She picked up her phone from where it had started to buzz in the passenger seat and read the text from her father. "Drive safe."

Tifa shouldn't laugh, but laughing had been harder lately, so she would take any excuse. She snorted into her latte, spinning the cardboard holder around the cup and letting a swig scald her throat.

She felt better. Her hair wasn't perfect, but it didn't have to be. She grabbed her green messenger bag and swung it over her shoulder. The 1994 Jeep Cherokee shuddered when she slammed the door.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Of course Cloud Strife would be the first kid she saw on the first day of school after his drunk father T-boned her mother's Ford Ranger. He sat on the bench on the parking lot divider, chewing what appeared to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. From what Tifa could tell, he seemed to have stopped midchew when she left her car. She sighed. It was comforting in a way. His dad was dead, too.

That probably made her a horrible person.

Cloud swallowed and frowned. Cloud had never been one to interact with other students. He was a loner, a year above her, with no actual human contact in his entire three years attending Sector Seven High School. The fact that he acknowledged her at all was an accomplishment.

They had seen each other once over the summer. He and his mother had shown up at her mom's funeral. Her dad had made a scene, which she thought was stupid. Most of the things parents did seemed stupid. She remembered staring at Cloud while he stared at his black and white high tops and imagined that he regretted wearing them to a somber occasion.

But his mother worked sixty hours a week at the hospital, and his dad drank all their money. Cloud probably didn't own loafers.

"I don't care," she said. She had rehearsed the phrase over the summer, and it had seemed like it would be a much more meaningful gesture than it was.

"I don't either." Cloud crumpled up a ziplock bag and shoved it into his backpack. He slung the old bag over his shoulders and stood. "I'll see you around."

"I'd rather not," Tifa mumbled.

Cloud paused. Realizing she must have said that a little too loudly, Tifa massaged her temples.

He snorted. "I won't take it personally." He waved half-heartedly and headed for the school entrance.

One dreaded altercation down, Tifa cringed and leaned over to check her reflection in her driver's side mirror. Was that ketchup? She didn't want to think about how ketchup had gotten on her side mirror. She was frantically wiping it off with her sleeve and some good old fashioned spit when she heard the unmistakable screech of worn breaks.

Though she hadn't been anywhere near her mom's accident on Fourth and Village, she immediately jerked to attention when she heard it in the school parking lot.

Yuffie Kisaragi's minivan nearly toppled over as she veered into the spot at the front of the school. Generally, those spots were reserved for school employees, but last year Yuffie Kisaragi had somehow managed to use the properties of Eminent Domain against a hapless tow truck driver. No one had bothered since.

Tifa considered Yuffie's van a bit excessive. Few students drove minivans unless they had multiple siblings, but Yuffie took her duties as Debate Team Captain overzealously. Her Lincoln minivan was spacious enough to transport the top competitors every weekend. She had splashed it with the school colors, red and black, and even a visage of the mascot. Said mascot was supposed to be an AVALANCHE, but no one knew how to represent that, so they trotted out the Physics teacher's pet—something—Nanaki at games.

They'd tried painting it once.

"I said _sugar _cookies, you idiot." The unmistakable snip that was Yuffie Kisaragi's voice exploded from the sliding door. "How am I going to get Debate pledges with gingerbread? _It's not fucking Christmas._ And what are these? They're _crumbs_. Shake, if you're some perfect prep school transfer whose perfect servants make them perfect cookies whenever they want, _why_ would you join Debate? Tell me."

"They taste good," Shake said, crossing her arms.

Shake, apparently, was very good at talking fast, which made her something of a Debate Team prodigy. One would never know, however, based upon her interactions with Yuffie.

"Shake," Yuffie said, "how will they know if they taste good, if they're too nauseated to try them?"

When Shake said nothing, Yuffie tossed the bag of gingerbread cookies she had been waving around to the curb and forced her fingers into her hair. "Oh my gawd, at this rate, Cid is totally going to get all the transfers. Who wants to play baseball anyway?"

"I don't," Shake insisted, bending over to pick up the cookies.

Yuffie kicked the bag from Shake's tiny fingers. They crunched against the chrome rims of her van tire. "Not everyone is as enlightened as you, Shake. Come on, we have to set up for the fair now."

The fair.

Tifa had completely forgotten about the activities fair. She dropped her bag and scrounged through it. She hadn't bought materials for her classes yet, but she had tucked her spiral notebook from sophomore English inside. She splayed the notebook on the ground and yanked several sheets free.

Never one for color, Tifa frowned when she only came across the remains of a lavender gel pen leaking at the bottom of her bag. She removed it and threw it under her car before she settled on her blue Bic. She scribbled the words "Track Team" on one of the pages and folded it in half, testing it on the pavement to see if it would stand. It wilted, but if she tilted her head just right, she could still read it. Good enough.

Tifa wobbled to her feet and planted another piece of paper against the window of her Jeep. She scrawled "Name", "Email", and "Available Tuesdays and Thursdays?" across the top before restashing her belongings in her bag and bustling for the door. She fell into step behind Yuffie Kisaragi, hoping she would part the metaphorical Red Sea as students shrunk away from her.

As soon as Tifa passed through the thick, magnetic doors that connected the parking lot to the school gym, however, eyes seemed to hone in on her. Tifa imagined she could have _been_ Yuffie Kisaragi, and people she didn't know would still look at her like she might collapse at any moment in a fit of grief.

Not that Yuffie wasn't pathetic in her own way, just not a way that usually garnered sympathy.

Tifa did her best to ignore them, adjusting the strap on her messenger bag and clenching the fistful of notebook paper. She shouldered past Yuffie Kisaragi—"_Rude_"—who had stopped suddenly to pick out the perfect rickety card table for the Debate Team booth and strode toward the far back corner of the gym.

The downside to picking the back corner booth was that Tifa would have to cross the entire expanse of the gym to get there. Her sneakers squeaked as she crossed the first black basketball ring and nearly collided with Cid Highwind, captain of the baseball team.

"I'm so sorry, Tifa," Cid said.

Tifa stopped abruptly and twisted the strap of her bag. "Thanks," she said.

What Tifa was really thinking was that those were the first four words Cid had ever spoken to her in her life.

"I was talkin' to the rest of the athletics department"—meaning baseball, since that was the only sport at Sector Seven that had performed well in recent memory—"and we were thinking we could do a memorial to support you an' your dad, since you've been part of SSHS' athletics the past two years."

"Thanks, Cid," Tifa said. Her mom had already had a memorial. He hadn't even sent a card. Who doesn't send a card?

Cid chewed the inside of his cheek. He put a calloused hand on her shoulder. "Hang in there."

It was a little hard to 'hang in there' when no one gave her any slack. Tifa pushed by Cid, only to be confronted by Priscilla from Home Economics, who apparently had slaved away all night making her a cake that said "Sorry for your loss" in chocolate frosting. Because nothing conveyed sincerity like buttercream roses. After Priscilla came Ester from Ag Club and Butch from the Young Detectives, which Tifa didn't even realize was a thing until she read his laminated name tag. All of them had more or less the same words to say; they were sorry her mom died, and if there was anything they could do, she should let them know.

The only thing that kept Tifa from smashing Priscilla's cake over any of their heads was the promise that, when she finally got to her booth and the fair started, none of the freshmen or the transfers would even know her name. She wouldn't mind it if they still offered her cake, though.

Tifa's chosen card table sat just off to the side of the bright red gym bleachers, barely dipping out of the shadow they cast. She hid the cake under the bleacher rack, propped her wilted "Track Team" sign up in front and sagged into one of the two folding chairs behind the table. The second seat was supposed to be Zangan's, but the track team's captain generally spent practice fondling freshmen, and Tifa had not expected him to take recruitment any more seriously. Part of her had dreaded that he would have shown up to support her, but he was either a better friend than she gave him credit for or a shittier human being than she had expected.

From Tifa's vantage point, she had full view of the gymnasium. Debate Team and Baseball, the most successful activities at a school where most of the student body mistook competitiveness for a disease that should get you a free pass to the school nurse over Chemistry, had found the card tables just to the right of the entrance.

Debate's tray appeared to be loaded with decapitated gingerbread men, and baseball's laden with steaming Dixie cups. Tea, Tifa guessed, as Cid's girlfriend, Shera, had a reputation for brewing the best cup in the school. Since most High School students snuck their parents' credit cards to pay for expensive drinks at Starbucks—yeah, Tifa was guilty—the fact that someone could be known for brewing _tea_ was enough of an endorsement.

If Tifa didn't fear wading into apology infested-waters, she would be tempted to try some. Instead, she propped open her spiral notebook to the first blank page. She began to sketch Cid's long silhouette and Yuffie's gangly shoulders while she watched the two of them argue about something. Over the general tumult of entering transfer students, she managed to make out that they were fighting over pledges and Yuffie's rigorous Debate Team practice schedule edging out any competing activities should a student decide to commit.

She also heard the name "Zack Fair," a name almost as big in High School baseball as "Barret Wallace," and since the latter lost his hand, Tifa guessed Cid had his sights set on a replacement.

Shinra Academy, the private school three miles away, had hiked tuition that year, and a few extra handfuls of students whose parents couldn't afford the increase would be making the switch to public school. Tifa hadn't known Zack Fair, Shinra Academy's baseball prodigy, would be among them.

Even more mystifying, she had no idea why Yuffie might be interested.

"You're very talented."

Tifa jerked up from her drawing so quickly she almost knocked over the table. This would have been more of a problem, she supposed, if her booth had any materials. The sign slid from the card table and drifted to the ground with a crinkle.

The boy who had addressed Tifa bent and picked up the sign. He ran his trimmed nails across the crease and propped it back on the table. It seemed sturdier. "Yet I can't help wondering, if you're drawing on the only available paper. Where are new Track pledges supposed to sign up?"

Tifa frowned. He wore a bright blue suit, and she imagined he had someone else press it for him before he got out of bed that morning. She could not imagine him getting dust on his person or sweating through his undergarments to put in a good long distance.

"You aren't," she said.

The boy frowned. "Well, I'm not, personally, but that's hardly the attitude I expected. Why even bother to have a booth if you don't want any pledges?"

"Pledges are fine," Tifa said, "pretty boys are out."

The boy chuckled. "I'll take it as a compliment." He extended his hand over the table. "I'm Reeve Tuesti, and I'd like to sign up a friend of mine, Vincent Valentine."

There was no way in Hell Tifa was letting Vincent Velocity Valentine on her track team. Track had always been hers. No one went to the meets to watch Sector Seven High School's team, and that was the point, but if Vincent joined, that could change.

"Then why isn't he here to sign himself up." Tifa crossed her arms. "If he thinks he's too good for us, he can run by himself."

Reeve placed both his palms on the table, as if to steady himself. He wrinkled his eyebrows. "He wanted to, certainly," he said, "but he has work study first period."

There were two kinds of work study kids at Sector Seven High School: afternoon and morning work study. Afternoon work study kids had completed most of the credits they needed to graduate, and they just wanted a free period. Morning work study kids generally worked because they had to help their families put food on the table.

Tifa licked her lips. "I'm sorry," she cringed as the words escaped her lips. "I'm a bitch today." She slid her notebook off the signup sheet and forced it across the table so Reeve could sign it. She offered him her blue Bic, but he waved it off and pulled a gold-plated black pen from his sleeve.

It had a Montblanc emblem. Well, at least Reeve wasn't a scholarship kid. She could go back to instantly hating him guilt-free. He scrawled Vincent's information on the sheet and clicked the pen before replacing it in his cuff.

"Practices are Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, then?" Reeve clarified.

Tifa nodded. Over Reeve's shoulder, Yuffie splashed a cup of hot tea in Cid's face. He released a strained yelp.

"Oh, and Tifa," Reeve said, leaning over the card table again, "I was sorry to hear about your mother in the paper. I commend you for returning to school so soon."

Tifa scowled, but Reeve didn't seem to notice as he strode seamlessly across the gym toward the Student Government table in the center. Tifa slumped in her chair. Even the transfers knew.

She should have fixed her hair.

Yawning, Tifa bent back over her sketch of Yuffie and Cid. The subjects across the gym now seemed to be territorially circling a tall, dark-haired boy she could only assume was Zack Fair. He appeared to be openly devouring Yuffie Kisaragi with his eyes. Personally, Tifa didn't understand the appeal of the awkward, all elbows look—though she sometimes envied it—but it took all kinds.

Tifa had started sneaking glances at Priscilla's cake tucked under the stacked bleachers and wondered if she could smudge the "I'm sorry for your loss" into "I'm sort of a boss" with minimal wear and tear, then serve it to prospective track pledges. For every slice of cake, one must run a mile to burn those calories, girls.

"—for you?"

The cake had consumed Tifa's attentions such that she had completely missed the arrival of the Senior Class President, Aeris Gainsborough. Aeris left both palms on the card table for leverage. Her hair knitted together in a tight braid reminiscent of mutual strangulation.

But Aeris also had pale skin, and a neck that sloped into swooping clavicles. Unopened collars should be considered sinful.

Noticing that she suddenly had Tifa's attention, Aeris' thin lips parted in a patient smile. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Her glance snapped from Aeris' neck to her eyes—placid, distracted.

_She didn't even give a shit._

Tifa stood, knocking Zangan's empty chair over. It snapped into a fold. "Could you say that with any less sincerity? How about some fucking originality over here. You didn't even _go_."

The habit of speaking too loudly must have been new. The entire right half of the gymnasium grew still. A freshman with a pair of overalls drowning her torso dropped a stack of activity fliers. The science club members adjusted their glasses in unison. The choir soloist missed her note. Even Yuffie and Cid had stopped fighting over Zack Fair.

She had a funny way of showing that she didn't want attention. But now that she had it…

"None of you went," Tifa exploded, banging her fist on the card table. It flailed half-heartedly. "Yeah, it was summer break, but everyone knew, didn't they? None of you showed up at the memorial, and you're sorry now, but I wanted—I needed you to be sorry then. I'm not going to grieve on your time."

Her attention returned to Aeris Gainsborough who had begun fidgeting uncomfortably with the end of her braid. Tifa would feel guilty later for making her the subject of her outburst.

"So what can you do for me? You can leave me the hell alone."

A handful of freshmen in running shorts had gathered behind Aeris, apparently assuming there was a line. They started to inch away from Tifa.

"Except pledges can—pledge," Tifa finished and resumed her seat, scratching the back of her neck.

Her face felt hot, but she wasn't going to cry. She cried enough at night in her room, beating the stuffing out of her pillows and hiding them under her bed so her dad wouldn't know, but he heard through the walls. He had to.

She cried for her mom, who used to be one of the only Sector Seven High School parents in the stands at her track meets. She wouldn't cry because of them.

But Aeris was still standing directly in front of Tifa, her hands on the card table.

Tifa dug her nails into her thighs to keep herself form screaming. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

Aeris cleared her throat. "This is awkward," she said, brushing bangs from her face.

"_What_?"

"Not that it doesn't suck that your mom died, because it does—really, wow, bummer—but I'm just going around to all the booths and making sure you got all the materials you requested at sign up. Some people asked for posters to be made beforehand or name tags, see." Aeris sighed and smoothed out her dress, looking anywhere but at Tifa.

"So if I can't get you anything, I just need you to go ahead and sign off that everything was copacetic. Then I _promise_ I'll leave you alone."

Aeris Gainsborough placed the clipboard Tifa hadn't realized she had been carrying on the card table in front of her. She lay a pink gel pen on top of it and cleared her throat again.

Tifa's face still felt hot. She picked up the pen and popped the cap off. Then she quickly jotted her signature—she had accidentally started to sign her name in poetry club's place first, but when Aeris made a strange squawking sound, Tifa crossed it out—on the appropriate line.

Aeris put the pen behind her ear and smiled wide enough to fit the crescent moon. "Remember to vote for me," she said, then coughed politely, compulsively adjusted the stack of frayed notebook paper on Tifa's car table, and backed away. "Good luck with tna—oh, _track_ team," Aeris said. "Oh, and the uhh—mom thing."

When Aeris turned her back to Tifa, Tifa noticed her shoulders picked up, she took a deep breath, and corrected her posture before advancing on the science club.

* * *

Cloud Strife had developed a taste for two things since his father's episode with vehicular manslaughter: marijuana and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

He ate his sandwich before school, which left him with nothing to do during the free period before he TAed Sophomore Physics except…

Well, he was in the Physics classroom now. And Doctor Bugenhagen lectured so exuberantly it was almost like he was bouncing in midair. Cloud chuckled to himself because that would be defying the laws of _physics._

Cloud had the Sophomore Physics book out in front of him to make himself look engaged, though he was technically supposed to be partaking of independent study this period and not listening to the lecture. But it wasn't like he was going to pull _that _off this morning.

His vision focused in and out across the classroom. The heads of the sophomores wove with the blackboard into a mass of—sophomoreness. Like a continuum of sophomores. Sometimes one of them would speak to answer Doctor Bugenhagen's questions, and Cloud wondered if they were just speaking the Collective Sophomore Thought.

But that would be stupid. Cloud had been a sophomore, and he hadn't partaken of any hive mind behaviors—

Did Nanaki just lick his jowls at him? Every once in a while, in Physics, Cloud had sworn that Doctor Bugenhagen's pet was staring at him, but this morning he looked almost predatory. Cloud had no idea why the administration let that creature on the school premises. It was probably stir crazy, cooped up in a tiny classroom all day. It could snap and shred an unsuspecting student at any moment with its razor sharp canines.

Nanaki chose that moment to yawn and display his yellowed teeth.

Cloud thought about slapping himself, but he figured that would draw far too much attention. Instead, he glanced down at the sophomore text book. They were covering mass, probably. Mass was a good thing to cover. Mass was nice and harmless by itself; it was only when you factored in acceleration that you got force.

He had asked to look inside the casket out of curiosity—as a budding physicist.

The second hand of the clock seemed to be ticking backwards. Every once in a while, a perfectly good high was ruined by wanting it to be over, and then the second hand would tick backwards. Doctor Bugenhagen scribbled something on the blackboard with a fist of chalk. White lines crawled off the surface. The steel in the classroom made everything seem polished. Even Physics rooms smelled like the ammonia they stored in Chemistry labs, but Cloud could never figure out why.

High School Physics only ever covered things like magnets and switches at best, string and metal balls at its most bland. That didn't explain the ammonia smell.

He used to think formaldehyde would smell like ammonia.

That undertaker was an idiot.

Cloud stared back at Nanaki. He held his gaze for at least a minute. Maybe. His perception of time wasn't stellar, at the moment. Either way, the beast wasn't blinking. Cloud shivered and turned away quickly.

When he looked back, Nanaki wouldn't be looking at him. One, two—

_Holy shit did it just _wink_ at him?_

Cloud averted his eyes again and proceeded to find the wrinkles in his textbook seam fascinating. Each tiny wrinkle caught its own light as he lifted and lowered the front cover. Like the sophomores. The sophomores must have used this textbook because of the Continuous Sophomore unconsciousness connecting them to its seam.

That was definitely stupid. Thank god Cloud wasn't one of those stoners who thought he was brilliant while he was high.

Vaguely, Cloud registered that someone was talking to him. His eyes flicked to the second hand, and though it was in the same spot, the hour hand had moved. The sophomores stood from their seats and shouldered their bags like windup soldiers and marched out of the classroom. One, two—

"Oh, hi, Doctor Bugenhagen," Cloud remembered he was supposed to acknowledge his teachers when they spoke to him directly.

"Ho ho, 'hi' indeed, Mr. Strife. Did you enjoy the lecture?"

Cloud swore he responded to Doctor Bugenhagen's question immediately, but his teacher somehow had time to rap the pommel of his cane across Cloud's textbook before he opened his mouth. "Yeah, it was—a good refresher."

"You may have noticed that one of the students didn't take the information so easily."

Don't sound high, don't sound high, don't sound high. _Oh god Nanaki isn't at the front of the classroom anymore._

Cloud bunched his shoulders to clear his head. "She seemed to have trouble with the mass thing."

Doctor Bugenhagen forced his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "I was referring to Mister Wallace, but if you noticed someone else, I'd be happy to add her to your sessions after school."

"Sessions?" Cloud reasoned he would probably sound confused even if he weren't high.

"Part of our agreement before the end of the summer was that I would only give you credit for this independent study if you held office hours with my sophomores after school, remember?"

No, Cloud didn't. But last May seemed so far away, what with the second hand ticking backwards so often.

"Ho, but I dare say recent developments may have changed things. I wouldn't want to add to the stress of your situation, Mister Strife."

Cloud swallowed. His throat felt dry. He still couldn't find Nanaki. Doctor Bugenhagen had insinuated something about his dad, he felt sure. "No, it's fine. After school, Mister Wallace."

"He's agreed to meet with you tomorrow in the front parking lot," Doctor Bugenhagen said. "You may use my classroom afterward, of course, but I'd rather not go through the red tape of registering the room, so I'll just lock up and give you a key. That isn't a problem?"

Cloud had a feeling there should be something wrong with everything Doctor Bugenhagen had just said: something involving blackmail, lawsuits, liability… "No, that's okay."

At that moment, Cloud noticed Nanaki curled at his feet, his nose wedged next to the front right leg of his desk. It took every ounce of self-control he had remaining to stay seated.

"You may go now, Mister Strife," Doctor Bugenhagen said.

Cloud nodded, not taking his eyes off Nanaki, and got to his feet. He stuffed his textbook into his patched backpack and side-stepped Nanaki on his way to the door.

He had Mr. Holzoff in History next period. Luckily, he had managed to sleep through Holzoff's class all last year, and the history teacher hadn't said a word to him.

* * *

By the time History ended, Cloud had completely sobered. That made the rest of his day a drag—but that was the kind of pun he thought of when he was high.

Cloud waited in front of Sector Seven High School for his mom to pick him up and take him home. It usually took her an hour after school ended. She would fetch him in her station wagon and take him to their apartment where she made dinner, changed into her night uniform, and went back out again.

For the first time, Cloud didn't dread going home.

Cloud went to two memorial services that summer. One of them had a community presence. The bereaved—Tifa, her dad, and her grandfather—lined up outside the ceremony and took words from the guests. The art teacher went. Cloud didn't know her name because he had never taken art class, but he guessed Tifa had. Their neighbor Bill gave a speech about how Tifa's mother had stayed up with him in the barn when his best racing Chocobo got sick and had made a trip home only once to make hot cocoa and bring him some: a story so ridiculous it had to be true.

His mother had brought broccoli casserole, which Tifa's father had taken with a stiff lip and thrown in the trash. Cloud's mother had cried all the way home, swerving across the double yellow, and apologizing to Cloud because she _just couldn't leave him_.

The second memorial Cloud went to that summer had three guests: Cloud, his mother, and another nurse who shared the night shift with her. Only Cloud gave a speech because he thought someone should say _something_, but all he could manage was "He was my dad, I guess. He was probably pretty decent when he was younger." His mother had cried after that one, too.

Cloud had asked the undertaker to see inside the casket before the service. The undertaker told him that the body was probably sealed in a bag. From what he heard, there were pieces—but Cloud had to see it.

He had to make sure he was dead. So he wouldn't dread going home anymore.

The station wagon pulled up to the parking divider. The wood paneling was cracked on the passenger door, and the hinges on the side mirrors were rusted over. The driver's side window didn't work, so his mom had to lean over and crank the passenger side:

"How was your day?" she asked, smiling. Her bun had come loose.

Cloud could tell her that it was mostly a haze of inebriation, but he doubted that would make her feel better. Her smile had a crack in it.

He smiled back and got up to open the car door. It squealed. He should grease it for her. "Pretty good, I guess I'm tutoring some kid tomorrow for Physics."

"That's good—that's good, right?"

Cloud threw his backpack over his seat and crawled in through the passenger door. He used to ride the bus to school, but then he would be home longer, and he would never get to talk to his mother, just the two of them.

That wasn't the case anymore, but Cloud didn't want to ride the bus. He didn't want to sleep in until after his mother left for work in the morning. He didn't want to wait for her to get home at night.

"So—is it a girl?"

Cloud yawned. "Is who a girl?"

"The sophomore you're tutoring."

Cloud massaged his temples. "No, it isn't a girl."

"That's probably just as well." His mother moved one hand over the other on the steering wheel as she turned. "You need an older girl to take care of you."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "I'll be okay," he said.

She didn't say anything. When she swallowed, it sounded like paper scraped together. He wished she would turn on the radio. She listened to country music, but it was better than waiting for her to cry or ask him stupid questions about girls.

"You don't have to take care of me," Cloud said. "I'll be okay."

His mother reached for the rearview mirror and adjusted it. Cloud followed her glance and met her eyes in the glass.

"I know you will." She turned back to the road and drummed her thumb against the leather steering wheel.

Cloud looked out the window and saw the rows of blue and yellow houses pass him by as they left the suburbs for the city. Buildings got taller, the roads wider and more cramped. Billboards shrunk behind them like quilt squares in the sky.

"So you'll make dinner tonight, right?" she said.

It was a bad joke, but Cloud chuckled anyway—because at least it was one.

* * *

Tifa got the key in the brass lock only after the fourth attempt, using her shoulder and foot to wedge the front door open. She stumbled in, cursing, before kicking it closed behind her.

"I'm home," she called, reflexively.

She had one boot off and was unlacing the other before the realization of how incredibly stupid she was slapped her in the face. Or, more appropriately, hit her like a car.

Her dad wouldn't be getting home for another two hours. The house was empty.

"Day 43," she said, lining her boots up next to the door. "Another one down."


	2. Chapter 2: Donuts at Eleven

**Bubble Gum**

**Chapter 2: Donuts at Eleven**

Tuesday went better than Monday.

Not because people had stopped avoiding Tifa following her outburst or because they had stopped telling her how much they really do care—their card must have gotten lost in the mail.

Because teenagers sent cards.

Tuesday went better because Tifa could look forward to art class with Mrs. Gainsborough and track practice after school. Track usually consisted of unstructured running. The coach never showed up to do more than read his morning newspaper and sip from teacher's lounge coffee, which Tifa had heard tasted more like sewage.

But when she ran, she didn't have the energy to think after a while. Her thighs and calves went numb. If she got enough speed, her hair stopped batting at her neck. She could feel the bumps in the track at the bottom of her stomach—and there were a lot of them. The Sector Seven High School track consisted primarily of thick mud, sometimes dried and jagged, but mostly squelching and fraught with stray gravel. That meant Tifa got the track to herself, so she didn't mind.

The rest of Tifa's day before fourth period wound away. At one point, she passed Cloud in the halls outside English, and he had not made eye contact, but he had unfolded the hand wrapped around his right backpack strap in an intended wave.

Someone had whispered, "Five bucks, she hits him," and that had almost made her want to stop Cloud and say hello to him.

She knew he didn't get the "sorry"s. People may have felt sorry for him, but not in a "your dad is dead" way, not in the same way they did for Tifa. That made her angry on his behalf.

Not that she would wish her position on anyone, but who were they to deny Cloud his chocolate cake?

Tifa slammed her locker door shut to see Vincent Valentine leaning on the other side, his face about two inches from her nose.

"Holy shit." Tifa jumped. She had to stop losing focus inside school walls.

"That's a new one," Vincent observed.

Tifa frowned and turned the dial to scramble her locker. "Can I help you?" She recognized Vincent from track meets. No one could best his time in the 100 meter, to her eternal vexation.

"I thought I would introduce myself," Vincent said, offering his right hand.

"I know who you are, Velocity." Tifa strode by him, ignoring the invitation.

"I was hoping I could lose the moniker when I transferred." Vincent folded his hands in his jean pockets.

"It sticks." Tifa glanced over her shoulder to see Vincent keeping pace with her. "Kind of like you."

"Wow," Vincent muttered. "I can take the hint."

Tifa shook her head, fiddled with the elastic in her hair, and turned around. "You know what? Reset. I've been really bitchy for a while now. I forget to turn it off."

"Oh yeah," Vincent sighed. "I heard about your mom. I'm sorry. I wasn't going to say anything."

Tifa rolled her eyes, clenched her teeth, and started to count to ten.

"Pretend I didn't," Vincent suggested.

Tifa reminded herself that Vincent Valentine had nothing to do with her or this school. He liked to run. So did she. Exhale. "I can do that."

"So I'll see you after school, then?" Vincent grinned.

"Sounds good." Tifa tried to sound genuine, but she feared she caught the insincerity bug.

Both Tifa and Vincent continued walking down the West Hall toward the arts wing. Band usually met in the mornings.

"You have art next period, don't you?"

Vincent cleared his throat and dusted off his t-shirt sleeves. "I like to work in oils."

"I might have believed you if you said water color." Tifa snorted.

"You're right. Art is an elective credit. I was trying to impress you."

Tifa didn't miss a beat. She lengthened her stride to keep time with Vincent's. "You'll like Mrs. Gainsborough."

A girl in a blue mini skirt slammed shut the door of her locker. "Gainsborough—Isn't that that really cheery student council member?"

At this point, Vincent and Tifa had reached the front of the art class room. Mrs. Gainsborough liked to keep the glass cases on either side of the door full of student artwork. They sat empty and cadaverous at the start of the new year. Tifa wrenched at the brass doorknob.

"She's gotten to you already?" Tifa felt embarrassed on Vincent's behalf. She cupped his shoulder with her free hand. He was tall so she had quite a ways to reach. Once her hand rested on his collarbone, she felt she had to leave it there and pretend she didn't notice the awkward height disparity. "She's as bad as Yuffie."

"The girl who threatened me after second period with the 'mastication' of my tendons if I didn't join Debate?"

Tifa and Vincent passed through the doorway and into Mrs. Gainsborough's classroom. The walls weren't as empty as the glass cases in the hall; Elmyra Gainsborough had covered them with photos of pieces of artwork inspired by the Japanese Mingei movement. These included clay cups, blacksmithing pieces, and woven baskets.

Tifa did not quite understand Mrs. Gainsborough's attraction to "the art of every day labor," so she did not dwell long on any of the photographs as she took her seat next to Vincent. So far, Elmyra Gainsborough had not shown herself.

"At least Yuffie is honest," Tifa observed. "Aeris will just give you the most sickening smile she can muster while she calculates how she can buy your"—Tifa's stomach bottomed out when she felt a familiar hand on her shoulder; she craned her neck—"Hi, Mrs. Gainsborough."

For a moment, Mrs. Gainsborough appeared to savor the silence and Tifa's eyebrows knitting together before she shrugged and removed her hand. "I've heard worse."

"I didn't mean—"

"Of course you did, Tifa," Mrs. Gainsborough said. "As much as I would like everyone to appreciate my daughter's company, I admit that isn't possible." She wiped her hands on her stained apron and strode toward the front of the classroom.

Vincent sat to Tifa's right, almost biting on his tongue to keep from laughing.

"Don't be insufferable." Tifa elbowed him.

"I would like to begin the year with pottery," Mrs. Gainsborough declared. "You may partner up for the next two weeks. I expect to see some expression of creativity from both partners."

Out the corner of her eye, Tifa saw Priscilla inching toward her. As much as Tifa had to admit Prisicilla always made the best looking vases and urns, she didn't think she could handle forlorn looks and various baked goods for the next two weeks.

Tifa rounded on Vincent. "Want to partner up?"

"You realize I'm going to be bad at this, right?"

Tifa glanced once more over his shoulder to see the corners of Priscilla's lips droop. Her ponytails seemed to sag with the jilt of rejection.

Tifa shrugged. "I'm not very good at pottery either. _I_ paint with acrylic."

"I'm guessing you're the best offer I'm going to get either way."

From across the room, Tifa thought she felt the sting of jealousy as Ester's eyes bore along Vincent's strong jaw line. She had an inkling Vincent was selling himself short.

"Now that everyone has their partners"—Elmyra rolled the sleeves of her green camisole to her elbows—"you can use the rest of the period to brainstorm. I expect everyone to show up next period with their hands wet and a concept fully fleshed out before you start to use the clay."

That's exactly what Tifa and Vincent used their period for. Except for the brainstorming part.

"So Cid Highwind _really_ shut Barret Wallace's hand in a car door?" Vincent whistled.

"Completey crushed. Barret has a funky silver prosthetic with his initials on it and everything. I'm looking forward to Shinra Academy crushing us again in baseball this year. Prick needs to be taken down a peg."

"I don't know about Cid." Vincent waved his hand dismissively. He sat with his elbows propped up on their faux mahogany work station while Tifa doodled floral cross sections on a piece of red construction paper. "But I've got my entire future riding on a track scholarship. If I suddenly couldn't run…"

Tifa chewed her fat tongue. "You're right. That really sucks for Barret. But he's just a sophomore, so maybe he has time to figure something else out."

Vincent's head bowed low over his hands. "I hope so." He frowned, fishing for a segway into another conversation. "Track after this, right? I'm excited to see the field. We never had meets at Sector Seven High School. Everyone figured you must not have the best facilities."

"_Hey_—" Tifa made a fist, but then she sighed and unclenched it reflexively. "Yeah, it's kind of messed up. But I guess that's part of why I like it. Not much competition, so I can run after school whenever I want."

"You get defensive pretty easily, don't you?" Vincent observed.

Tifa glowered at him and tore a corner from her red construction paper.

"Not that that's a bad thing." Vincent shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "Just loosen up sometimes."

Elmyra Gainsborough drifted over to Tifa's and Vincent's work station after nodding approvingly at a sketch Ester and Priscilla offered her. Tifa thought about diving under the table, but decided she might break something in addition to making a fool of herself.

Mrs. Gainsborough glanced down at Tifa's sketch. "Is that your concept?"

"No, not really," Vincent said. "We've been keeping our ideas—intangible." He propped his chin on his hand.

Mrs. Gainsborough raised an eyebrow. "Just as long as it's _tangible_ in two weeks."

The bell peeled along the halls. Mrs. Gainsborough raised her head to address the class, but students had already begun hastily cramming their bags with stray sketches and sprinting for the door. She waved her hand across her face as if batting away the speech she had intended to give and strode back toward her office next to the kiln room.

"You're right." Vincent shrugged. "I like her."

Tifa started to crumple her doodle in one fist, but Vincent snatched it away. "You don't mind if I decorate my locker? You were going to throw it away."

"Uhhh—if you want me to actually draw you something…"

"Not particularly." Vincent flattened out the floral cross sections on their work bench before tucking them carefully into an accordion folder in his rucksack.

Tifa pursed her lips and decided not to read too much into it.

"Hurry up, long distance." Vincent snatched his bag from his stool. "Don't make it too easy for me."

"That isn't going to be my nickname," Tifa said, hurrying to follow him.

"You prefer defensive line?"

"I prefer something creative."

Vincent sighed. "You're the artist, alas. You're stuck with me." He started to pick up a jog. Apparently, he didn't realize the giant apple red signs that read 'NO RUNNING IN THE HALLS' extended past school hours.

Tifa felt a grin form on the lower half of her face. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she could probably use an extra friend.

* * *

Zack Fair didn't know what he expected when he opened the door to Mr. Holzoff's room after fourth period ended—

That wasn't true. Zack Fair knew exactly what he expected. He expected a handful of nerds stooped over a box of newspaper clippings as they practiced reading them with increasing levels of speed.

To be fair, that's exactly what Shake was doing. Zack could not decide whether or not she was aiming for intelligible as she ran through the morning's back page on the environmental impacts of plastic clothespins.

Zack Fair did not understand Debate Club. Shinra Academy's was decent, he supposed, but it did not sport anywhere near the clout it seemed to at Sector Seven High School. After Zack transferred, he resolved to join any club but baseball. For whatever reason, Yuffie Kisaragi had decided she wanted him on the Debate squad, and Zack decided almost on the spot that he wanted _her_. That, coupled with the fact that Debate's practice times conflicted with Baseball's, and he couldn't sign the sheet fast enough.

It did not take him long to find Yuffie Kisaragi on Tuesday, after school, staring at the chalkboard. She had scrawled the September speech and debate topics across it in cramped, but scratchy handwriting.

_"ST: R'd: In Midgar's criminal justice system, truth-seeking should take precedence over responses meted through torture._

_ "CX: R'd: Shinra should increase its military involvement in Gongaga and Corel regions. _

_ "PF: R'd: Immigrants to Midgar should be given rights. At all."_

Zack "r'd" not to go cross-eyed reading the topics.

Yuffie appeared pleased with her efforts. Her chest puffed up at the board, and her elbows connected at her lower back. Zack's eyes lingered at her waist; Yuffie had more than just chalk scribbles to feel proud of.

"Hey, Hot Stuff"—Zack reflexively chewed on the inside of his cheek; _hot stuff_?—"how's it shaking?"

Yuffie rounded on her heel and frowned almost immediately. "You actually came."

"Of course I did." Zack raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be a little happier about that? You practically scratched Cid's eyes out over me."

Yuffie waved him off absently. "Sure, sure. I'm ecstatic with my victory over Highwind. I just have to figure out what to do with you now." She placed one hand on her hip and squeezed her lower lip with the other.

So she would play hard to get. Zack could wait. Her gesture betrayed her. Girls always drew attention to their lips when, deep down, they wanted you to kiss them.

"I just figured you'd show me how to do whatever it is that you do."

Yuffie almost choked on the guffaw that escaped her lips. "Definitely humorous interpretation," she muttered.

Zack pouted. "But that isn't what you do."

"Fine," Yuffie sighed. "How would you go about making an argument for the ST topic on the board?"

Zack read the topic again and sighed. He guessed participating in Yuffie's event would get him closest to her. He mentally put on his impress-the-panties-off-the-girl hat. "Well of course truth-seeking is more important. Responses people torture out of you are lies."

Yuffie took a deep breath and swallowed. "You just said the truth is more important because it's the truth."

"No I didn't." Did he? Either way, that wasn't the response he would have gotten from the baseball groupies at Shinra Academy.

"What if I asked you to argue the other side?" Yuffie crossed her arms.

Zack's jaw dropped. "You mean people in this club argue for the use of _torture_?"

"I might have to." Yuffie nodded. "If I draw the negative."

When Zack's outraged expression remained fixed on his face, Yuffie softened. She tapped her foot on the worn carpet and spread her arms. "Look, it's better if you do a different event. If you try to compete in Shinra-Tinning, you'll just get overwhelmed by how impossible it will be to catch up to me. Then you'll get depressed and you'll enter a rutt, and you'll beg me to give you my box, which I'll do as a good teammate, of course, but then I'll never really respect you as a _man_ after that."

Zack chewed his bottom lip. Apparently, Yuffie was _really_ good at this Debate Club thing. That's what everyone said, even at his school. She may have a point. If he competed in her event, she would probably kick his ass every time, and while he would find that unbelievably hot—especially if she used handcuffs in bed, _please own a pair of pink fuzzy ones—_he could see how she might—not.

"You want me to respect you, don't you Zack?" Yuffie pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "I mean, in so far as I respect anyone except me in this godforsaken district."

Staring at her parted lips, Zack felt himself nodding mutely. All girls liked a guy who could make them laugh.

Yuffie placed both hands on Zack's shoulders and steered him over to a pine book case lined with mostly short story collections. A lank girl with a cutoff side pony tail paged through a book called "High Art," occasionally licking her thumb and chuckling. She barely looked up as Zack and Yuffie approached.

"Checkov will help you learn the ropes of humorous interpretation. With any luck you'll be competition ready in time for novice season."

"Humorous interpretation is like—standup comedy, right?" Zack asked.

"You know what"—Yuffie patted his right upper arm—"there's no shame in being a week or two late. You'll just have to ride in the losers van. Oh wait. Checkov, is there a loser's van?"

Checkov yawned. "Nope."

Yuffie nodded. "So get your shit together, Pledge, and stop asking stupid questions. Jesus. Standup comedy? What does he think this is?"

"I'll get him shaped up, Yuffie."

Yuffie did not bother to wait for Checkov's answer before strutting back to the blackboard. Zack was pretty sure Checkov said something else, but he found himself distracted by the subtle curve at Yuffie's waist line. He bet most people wouldn't notice it, but the fact that he did—

"Hey, Zack," Checkov snorted. "Look through the books and find something you want to act out by yourself. If you want an example, I can show you the piece I used at Nationals last year. Have fun."

She then returned to her book as Zack rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to tackle the pine bookcase he dubbed his Everest.

* * *

Cloud waited out front on his favorite parking lot bench after school, assuming he would catch sight of Barret Wallace if he approached the front from any angle. Barret was hard to miss, what with his stature, the shining silver prosthetic, and the fact that he was one of the four black kids in school. Juniors and seniors found their cars and started the ignition. A bunch of them gathered several feet from Cloud's bench, arranging to meet at the Seventh Scoop several blocks away.

Fifteen minutes after Cloud assumed his post, the front entrance doors cracked open, banging against the steel pillars on either side, and Barret blew from inside the building. Several other sophomores followed after him, headed for the buses. Ester revved her classic chrome Firebird past Cloud as he took his time brushing off his jeans and ambled over to the Barret.

"You Strife?" Barret asked, puffing out his chest. He kept his prosthetic out in the open and his other hand gripped tightly around his rucksack.

Cloud nodded. He supposed Barret should recognize him from class, but he did sit in the back of the room and make it his mission to remain as invisible as possible—especially when Nanaki was around. Cloud fished the key ring Professor Bugenhagen had lent him from his pocket and dangled it between them. The brass key to the Physics room caught the summer Sun before Cloud jerked forward and headed toward the building.

Barret followed in stride, his large feet clopping against the tiles down every hall. "I don't even know why I'm fuckin' here, Man. It's not like I blew a test or nothing."

Cloud rolled his eyes as he jammed the key in Bugenhagen's classroom and peered around the door. Nanaki wasn't inside. For a moment, Cloud had been terrified that the creature slept at school.

"What was that for?" Barret growled.

"Some teaches may have inflated your grades last year because of baseball, but you won't have that luxury this year." Cloud threw his bag on a desk at the front of the classroom.

Barret almost instantly turned a shade of beet root. "Fuck you." He turned to leave the room. "I don't need some scrawny white boy who sat in the back of the classroom baked out of his mind first period telling me about fucking inflated grades. Yeah, I noticed. You was higher than a pop fly."

Cloud massaged his temples. He did not want to be here. "If you can summarize the chapter Doctor Bugenhagen assigned you , I'll let you go."

Barret froze at the door. "I was gonna read it. I just haven't yet."

Cloud sighed. "Then sit down and open your book. If you're fine, it won't take us long to get through it."

Barret lowered his rucksack onto a desk next to Cloud's and pulled out Doctor Bugenhagen's sophomore Physics text book, _Fundamentals in Physical Sciences_. Cloud noted it looked slightly less intriguing without the previous day's altered haze.

The spine folded open to "Chapter 2: Mass", which seemed fairly unassuming. Barret read the title with ease, but then began to struggle.

"The p-f-physical world is compr-is-ed of building blokes—blocks—"

"_You can't even read_?" Cloud sputtered.

"Hey, shut the Hell up," Barret roared, slamming his prosthetic on the desk. It wobbled from the applied force. "I can read. I just have troubles 'sall."

"They let you pass Freshman English, and _you can't even read_."

Barret slammed his book shut and moved to shove it back into his rucksack.

Cloud raised his hands defensively. "I'm sorry, really. You can read. It's just harder for some people. You're probably dyslexic. That's a thing."

Barret put his book back on the desk, but he didn't open it. Cloud could see the rage building behind his eyes and felt a pang of guilt. Now he really did not want to be here.

"I'm just—wow. I had no idea favoritism for athletics was that bad," Cloud mumbled.

"Are you fucking done now?" Barret growled.

Cloud ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm good." He sighed. "So we might be here a bit longer than I anticipated, but it's not like I have anything better to do until eleven o'clock anyway."

Barret raised an eyebrow. "Is that some kinda' stoner hour?"

"I work at Dandy Donuts at night," Cloud admitted. "I usually nap after school, but I've never really needed sleep you know, and I don't think I'd know what a good night's sleep looked like if…"

Cloud noticed Barret cupping his good hand over his face in stifled laughter.

"You work the night shift at a donut shop," he sputtered. "I didn't even know that was a thing."

"If you _must _know," Cloud frowned, "it's a good time to do homework, and the kinds of guys who buy donuts after eleven generally know where to get good weed."

"So I was right," Barret said, "it is Stoner Hour."

Cloud feigned a yawn. "Don't you have a chapter to read?"

Barret shook his head, chuckling to himself, and reopened the physics book. "Fucking donuts at eleven," he snorted. "I might have to pay you a visit one of these days."

"I'm all aquiver with anticipation. Now read, kid. I might not have better things to do, but that doesn't mean I want to waste time with you."

"So there was this building block shit," Barret paraphrased, "and it's called mass. 'It has the pro-property o' takin' up space…"

* * *

Tifa struggled to yank up her shorts, hopping on one foot in the locker room and slamming the metal grate as she dressed herself. She pulled her hair more tightly into its elastic and waved to Jessie, who had somehow managed to get stuck under the changing bench, as she escaped the smell of sweat and old socks into the fresh fall air of the track.

As Tifa mounted the tall hill that led to the field, she saw the boys—Biggs, Wedge, and Vincent—gathered around Mr. Coates, the track coach. Wedge normally sprung for the discus in the shed as soon as they arrived on the field, and Biggs started running. She assumed Vincent would do the same. Mr. Coates, in addition, never bothered to put down his paper or his cheese danish to directly address the group unless a meet would be coming up and he needed to arrange pickup times.

Tifa's throat tightened as she broke into a jog, skittering over the clipped shale of the track on her way to join the group.

As she approached, Tifa got a better look at the boys. Vincent looked pale, his jaw clenched. Biggs and Wedge seemed on the verge of embracing as they huddled, downcast, several feet from Vincent. Mr. Coates wrapped his gold chain around his finger and unraveled it. He chewed on a lemon cough drop; Tifa could smell it on his breath.

"Hey, Tifa," he said, winking. "I was just telling the boys here about track being canceled this year and all."

"_What_?"

"Track isn't canceled," Wedge interjected, waddling over to stand closer to Tifa. "Mr. Coates just means to say we can't use _the_ track."

"You see, the conditions of this track are simply hazardous." Coates folded his hands in his teal jacket sleeves. "Since the incident on school grounds with Barret Wallace last year, we've taken a closer look at safety conditions in the athletics department."

Tifa peeked over Coate's shoulder to see yellow "CAUTION" tape tied between cones ringing her favorite part of her High School. It really was a crime scene. She thought about the only good parts of school: Jessie nearly impaling her with the javelin as her and Biggs slogged over the mud. It crusted her socks at night, but her mother would always help her clean them with an old comb in the driveway when she got home. Even the familiar sound of Zangan slurping on the faces of freshmen girls behind the bleachers seemed nostalgic.

Zangan had probably seen the yellow tape and left.

"Where are we supposed to run, then?" Tifa glowered at Coates.

Coates cracked the cough drop in his molars. "Take it up with the office, I guess."

Last year, Tifa wouldn't have lifted a finger. She could run anywhere. She could run to Seventh Scoop and back after school every day. But Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge had all come to see her over the summer. Or at least bothered to call.

"We're not," Vincent said. "Supposed to practice, I mean."

Then Tifa saw the clenched jaw, the dark red of his eyes. She remembered their conversation about Barret in Mrs. Gainsborough's class. She recognized his expression, searing under the skin of his cheeks. Tifa had felt that kind of hopeless rage.

Tifa turned back to the locker room, but not to change her clothes. Jessie had tripped a few feet behind her in an effort to catch up to the group. She offered Jessie her hand and scooped the sophomore up. Then, without bothering to change, Tifa stormed toward the front of the school building.

"Tifa?" Biggs asked, jogging behind her.

"I'm going to see the administrators," Tifa said. "You can come if you want."

* * *

In the main office of administration in the front of the Sector Seven High School building, individually wrapped mints replaced appointment sheets. The receptionist had fondness for periwinkle blue that bordered on disturbing, as she always seemed to dress herself head to toe in it and decorated the front office with periwinkle color swatches.

Tifa and the rest of the track team, minus Zangan, threw open the door and then stopped. Frozen in the middle of the office, Tifa began to question herself. Now that she had made it into the administrative office, what did she think she would do: demand an administrator reopen the track? She could not deny having lost several layers of skin or having fractured an ankle once or twice.

"Excuse me?" the reception asked. "Will you be needing anything?"

The receptionist shrunk from Tifa in her chair. Tifa raised an eyebrow. "I'm here to see a school administrator." It occurred to her that she had no idea what any of their names were.

"I'm sorry." The receptionist clicked the top of a periwinkle pen. "Administrator Domino is currently seeing someone in his office. Can I set up an appointment? Maybe for next week?"

"Next week?" Tifa blurted. "No way am I waiting until next week."

Behind the receptionist stood three faux mahogany doors. The center one had a gold plaque that read "Administrator Domino" on a cut of printing paper that looked like it had been glued on with craft adhesive.

Tifa circumvented the receptionist's desk and strode toward Domino's office. The receptionist cowered in her chair and did not attempt to stop her. Tifa reached for the knob when Vincent grabbed her by the arm. She had forgotten that the rest of the track team came to the administrative office with her, but she looked over her shoulder and saw Jessie fidgeting nervously, Biggs staring intently at a color swatch, Wedge pilfering a handful of mints, and Vincent staring at his feet behind her.

She licked her lips. She could feel herself letting them down.

Vincent grabbed Tifa's wrist. "Tifa, there's nothing we can do."

A flash of heat branded Tifa's eye sockets. She felt her hand shake around the knob. She would not be helpless.

Domino's office door nearly smashed into her nose when it opened suddenly. The bottom raked the tops of her toes and she swallowed a swear crawling up her throat as she leapt away.

"Fine," the unmistakable voice of Aeris Gainsborough burst from the room. "If you can't be bothered to slash the teacher's lounge muffin fund to comp the rest of the money to fix the track, the Student Council will have to take care of it."

Tifa wobbled on her feet. Did she just say 'fix the track'?

Aeris traipsed from Domino's office expediently, her arms straight and at her side. She bore a smug look that immediately drained into her farcical smile when she spotted the track team. "Perfect." Aeris clapped her hands together in front of her. "This saves me the trouble of searching for you."

She sighed and crossed the reception hall to the door. When she noticed the track team remained fixed in the same spots they occupied upon her exiting Domino's office, she frowned. "Well?"

"We were just waiting to see Domino." Tifa pointed meekly at the door.

Aeris spread her arms. "About fixing the track, right? Don't bother."

Tifa glowered. "I'm getting tired of people telling me to take things lying down."

Aeris sighed and put on what Tifa assumed she intended as a patient smile. "Of course not. I would never suggest such a thing." She smoothly opened the front office door and gestured for the track team to pass through. "Shall we walk, then?"

Jessie moved first, scurrying after Aeris and nearly slipping on the tile floor. Wedge emptied the tray of mints into his bag, and he and Biggs followed after. Tifa and Vincent exchanged a glance, shrugged, and closed the door on the way out. Tifa hoped she hadn't traumatized the receptionist too much by simply being in the office.

Aeris gravitated toward Tifa. She lightly gripped her wrist and guided her to stand beside her, brushing the inside of her forearm as she released her hold. "First, I would like to express my regret on behalf of the Student Council for not bringing this matter to your attention. I can only imagine your distress when you showed up to practice only to find that you—couldn't."

Despite the light touch, Aeris seemed to be avoiding Tifa's eyes and staring straight down the hall. Her braid whispered against her neck with each step. She felt slighted that Aeris knew about _her_ track first.

"Thanks, Aeris," Jessie said, "but you really didn't do anything wrong. See, how could you—"

Aeris coughed. Jessie turned red and stopped talking.

"I tried to convince the administration that this was their responsibility, and they should fund a paving of the track for the students instead of just shutting it down." Aeris glided over the linoleum, barely making a sound with each footfall. "I was shocked to hear that they refused to provide the necessary funds to complete the work. Something about the state suing the school district for serving pea and ham soup that didn't pass FDA regulations. I can't be bothered with their irresponsibility."

Folding her hands, Aeris smiled at Vincent. "So I would like to make it the Student Council's responsibility to help you raise the funds for your new track."

Tifa sputtered. "You've got to be kidding me."

Aeris still did not look Tifa in the eye, but she stopped looking at Vincent. Her eyes roved for the doors to the gymnasium. The Student Council met there after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Tifa felt her gut clench at the thought of passing through the doors hiding Aeris' minions.

"I'm not sure what's so funny." Aeris leaned against the wall next to the gym. "We have excellent resources."

"I know Priscilla's cupcakes are delicious," Tifa said, "but a track can cost well into six digits."

Aeris reclaimed Vincent's eyes. Tifa didn't think she could stand to look at him while Aeris attempted to seduce him with false hopes and a pretty face.

"Actually, I could probably get the price reduced considerably." Vincent's words came out deliberately, as if he had gone over them in his head several times before speaking. "I help my dad out in construction in the mornings, and there's usually enough extra material in the cement mixers to fill out parts of a new project. The company just tosses it. If I could work it out, we'd only have to pay the labor."

Tifa's first impulse was to question whether or not Vincent should be making promises for his father, but she bit her tongue.

Aeris did not waste a moment to act surprised. "I have a selection of boosters who would be happy to strike some kind of deal with us, such as matching every dollar we make from fundraisers. An exhibition from you would not go without their appreciation, I dare say." She winked at Biggs.

Tifa felt her shoulders slump. Everything about Aeris struck her as conniving. "What's in this for you, then?"

Exposing her palms, Aeris turned her attention to Jessie. "I'm always looking for ways to advocate for students, even in the case of such a small track team."

"And our votes," Tifa countered.

"Of course, but that's just an added bonus."

For a moment, Tifa considered her options. She knew the student government did have a group of boosters interested in funding public school extracurricular activities as an outreach. As for the fund-raising, everyone knew that Priscilla and the Home Economics club only baked for fundraisers sponsored by Student Government. And if Aeris was as obsessed with attaining the title of Student Body President in her senior year as she seemed, Tifa could see no reason she might want to betray them. Still, it rubbed her the wrong way to trust someone when she had to examine their motives first.

A wash of defeat loosened Tifa's back. "Just tell me how much Priscilla needs for the cookies."

For the first time since Tifa accosted Aeris at the Activities Fair, Aeris met Tifa's eyes. They darkened with clear delight. She covered her mouth with her hands and giggled into them. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that asking Pricilla to put on a bake sale would be a waste when you have such useful assets at your disposal."

Both Biggs and Wedge suddenly froze. Jessie frowned and almost fell over cocking her head.

A grin curled around Vincent's chin. "So you're thinking a car wash?"

When Tifa's neck snapped back to Aeris, she was no longer staring at Tifa's eyes.

Tifa hugged her chest. "Absolutely not."

Aeris put a hand on her hip. "Do you want my help or don't you?"

"Well, not really, but…"

"I know a thing or two about how to raise money. If we were propping the science club, baked goods would be our best bet, sure, but the science club isn't athletic. Shera isn't supposed to look good in a bikini. For an athletic club, however…"

Aeris' attention drifted from Tifa, to Vincent, to Jessie, to Wedge—here she raised an eyebrow—until she locked vision with Biggs. "You," she said, "would you fund an athletic team too self-conscious to show off their prowess?"

"No, Ma'am," Biggs said, timidly.

"Would you buy _baked goods_ from an athletics team, Biggs?"

Biggs paused, flattered that Aeris knew his name, which gave Wedge time to hesitantly raise his hand.

"I wasn't asking you." Aeris sounded cold enough to freeze Wedge where he stood.

He pocketed his hand.

"No, Ma'am," Biggs said.

"Would you buy a car wash from Tifa Lockhart?" Aeris demanded.

For a moment, Tifa thought Biggs would faint. His eyes wandered to Tifa as if he wanted her permission to answer in the affirmative.

"Fine." Tifa threw up her hands. "You made your point."

Aeris threw her braid over her shoulder. "I'll wear a bathing suit, too, just to play fair."

Tifa swore she saw Aeris glance to her breasts again.

"In the meantime," Aeris said, "you're probably all wondering where you'll be practicing." She leaned against the doors to the school gymnasium.

The gym looked much more attractive without card tables and construction paper club signs. The sealed wood paneling had been polished and waxed recently. The bleachers tucked up against the wall, and the backboards raised into the rafters, opening the space.

The rest of the Student Coucil, including Johnny, the next door neighbor Tifa rarely spoke to, sat in folding chairs in the same corner Tifa had chosen to setup her Track Team booth at the fair. Chole, the sophomore class representative, waved exuberantly

"We have Student Council meetings in the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays," Aeris said, walking backwards in the gym, "which overlaps with Track practice. You can bring some of your equipment here."

Aeris turned to Jessie. "Don't break anything."

Jessie, encouraged by eye contact, raced across the floor and threw her arms around Aeris' neck. "You're just the nicest person."

To her credit, Aeris didn't attempt to pry her free. Instead, she went rigid. "You're welcome."

Tifa chewed on her tongue while Biggs and Wedge high-fived. Vincent noticed her reticence and patted her on her back. "Don't look so terrified, long distance. This is the best offer we're going to get."

He had his shoulders thrown back. The rage had left his jaw line. For that reason, Tifa forced herself across the gym floor and extended her hand to Aeris, who clasped it and shook slowly around the obstruction of Jessie's waist.

"We'll take it."

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